


Auxilia

by AgripinaaFalls



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000, warhammer 30k
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 09:53:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9118501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgripinaaFalls/pseuds/AgripinaaFalls
Summary: Stories of the Great Crusade and the Horus Heresy-the interactions between the transhuman Space Marines and the mortal auxiliary units which they fight alongside.





	

An icy wind rolled across open ground, then met a wall. Finding no weaknesses in a wall built by human warriors who had ascended beyond the limits of their genetic heritage, it rolled along the wall’s length, kicking up flurries of snow which swirled around and through the firing loops, dimming the fire built to warm one of the many bunkers which formed a foundation for the fortress. Some of the soldiers huddled within shivered as the gust cut through their thick jackets. Other sentries hardly moved at all, their powered armor keeping the cold away from their skin.  
The bunker was one of a number of similarly constructed bastions, all part of a curtain wall forming the defenses surrounding Toshkinty, well over a hundred kilometers behind the defensive line. A communications relay was set atop the bunker, and set within the plasteel shell and ferrocrete walls were fifteen human _Imperialis Auxilia_ soldiers of the Valhallan 11th regiment, and two transhuman warriors of the mighty _Legiones Astartes_ -the Imperial Fists.  
Every space in the bunker was filled, either with soldiers either asleep, awake or at post, or supplies-munitions, water containers, meal packets, promethium fuel, and repair materials for the various weapons used by the soldiers in the bunker. As far as supplies in general went, Sister-Sergeant Ganzorig knew that it left much to be desired. But after four years of civil war which cracked the galaxy-spanning Imperium of Man to its basic foundations, the power-packs, bolter shells, and distilled spirits which filled the bunker’s holds were a hoard of treasure.  
The curtain line was itself the work of a year, starting as the desperate line of defence against the landing parties of the Sons of Horus, then building upon the foxholes and hastily scraped trenches into a bulwark against which the Warmaster’s bastard sons had broken their forces time and again.  
Although the ever-haughty Sons doubtless piled derision on the earthworks built up by the hands of mere humans, the only thing they had yet to pile onto the fortresses was a new rampart of their own corpses. It must have truly galled, to have their pride stung by those whom the Sons would never have even deigned to notice. From this bunker, and the one next to it, all the way down the line, the mortal sons and daughters of Valhalla held the line; the trans-human sons and daughters of Rogal Dorn, the Praetorian of Terra, stood with them. That common goal of defending the non-combatants gathered in Toshkinty had seen them become brethren in the battles along the fortress line, bonded in shared blood and shared duty.  
Sergeant Ganzorig had dispersed her squad along the fortress-line, spread out in the same manner that the 107th Company of her Legion had spread out to improve the defenses surrounding Toshkinty, bringing their experience and resolve to the un-augmented humans who were much of the actual defenders surrounding the approaches to the town. The scene before her was one of the duties to which many of her brothers and sisters alike had taken to with relish. Like the trench-digging and the battles which had seen those trenches defended, this was a shared work, bringing together the strength of both mortal and Astartes.  
Brother Arden, a native to Rogal Dorn’s own home planet of Inwit, sat by the dim heating fire surrounded by a number of men and women of the Valhallan soldiery. In front of him, his bolter lay disassembled, its parts precisely arranged on the scrap of ballistic cloth before him. The gleam of gun oil on the trigger mechanism and the slide reflected brightly, helping to scatter the little bit of light through the whole of the bunker. That same fire reflected off of the focusing lenses and holding levers for the las-locks of the Valhallans which ringed the younger Astartes. Arden hefted the grip of his bolter, inspecting it with eyes enhanced through an intensive process of genetic and biological reworking. Satisfied, his eyes turned to the human auxiliaries kneeling before their disassembled rifles.  
“Begin re-assembling your rifle,” the Space Marine intoned. “When you finish, hold your rifle before you.”  
Arden’s hands practically blurred-even among the disciplined ranks of the Imperial Fists, he had a gift for his skills of a rifleman, Ganzorig had to admit. By now, she had turned back to the defense line-her momentary gaze into the picturesque scene in the bunker also a chance to assess the supply situation of their position. They had enough bolter shells and extra las-lock packs to push back three more serious offensives, but if the bastards in the XVIth Legion came with tanks in support, they’d have to bring the communication relay online and call in air support. If the temperature stayed where it was-or, Emperor forbid, dropped further-they would have to place ballistic fabric over the firing holes or else even the hardy Valhallans would be at risk of freezing.  
It would be enough. Like the rudimentary holding walls which had grown into a bulwark against the Traitor’s reavers, these works of mere men would hold for as long as they had to. So long as the Space Marines stood beside them, the foundation to their strong towers. Brother Arden’s voice rolled to where she sat by the view-slit, keeping watch over their flock, their brethren. Their equals.  
“The Emperor Protects, brothers,” Arden began. “Now repeat with me. _This is my rifle. There are many like it…_ ”


End file.
